


We Have The Destiny To Meet Across A Thousand Miles

by SlimeQueen



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, OT6, Polyamory, Slice of Life, Yixing-centric, everyone really loves yixing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimeQueen/pseuds/SlimeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yixing would like to think they’d end up like this no matter what, all six of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have The Destiny To Meet Across A Thousand Miles

**Author's Note:**

> Completely self indulgent yixing-centric ot6 exo m because i love that boy to death and he loved exo m to death.  
> Please do not steal or post my work on any other website without my permission. Thank you!

_1\. Minseok_

Minseok wakes up early to the sound of guitar. A glance across the room tells him Zitao isn’t awake yet, the younger a lump under a pile of blankets. He’s always been a light sleeper, and living with five other people has him waking at odd hours all the time.

The blinds are open to paint long slanted stripes of early morning sunlight across Minseok’s duvet. He yawns absentmindedly as he strains to catch more of the song. It’s vaguely familiar, like something he’d heard in the background of a movie or on the radio a while ago.

Rising from his bed, he pads across the floor and slides on slippers. The second he’s out of the room, he regrets not getting a sweater. The dorm is too cold in the mornings, chilling him down to the bone.

To his delight, one of Lu Han’s sweatshirts is draped across the back of the couch. For once, Minseok is grateful him being lazy and not putting his clothing away correctly. It falls to his thighs and if he puts the hood up, it obscures his vision, but he’s grateful for the protective layer anyways.

He follows the scent of freshly brewing coffee to the kitchen, mouth curling into a smile as he spots Yixing sitting at the table with his guitar. He has a cardigan pulled on over his sleeping shirt, fingers strumming pensively, dark hair falling into his eyes. He looks up, eyes meeting Minseok’s and crinkling pleasantly.

Yixing is usually the first one awake, stumbling around the kitchen before anyone else to make breakfast and practice a bit before the day’s schedule.

“Good morning,” Minseok mumbles in Mandarin, pausing to tuck Yixing’s bangs out of his eyes as he passes on his way to the coffeepot. Yixing hums softly in response.

“There’s rice in the rice cooker.” He says quietly. There’s a steaming mug of tea on the table next to an open notebook that has a couple lyrics, both in Korean and Mandarin in Yixing’s sharp scrawl. Minseok pours himself a cup of coffee and shuffles around getting the cream and sugar. Blinking sleepily, he stirs the cream into the dark liquid, turning it light brown just the way he likes.

The shelf holding the sugar container is a formidable opponent, just out of reach when Minseok stands on his tiptoes. Damn Wu Yifan and his freakish height, putting all the condiments on high shelves. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing, one hand braced on the counter as he prepares to jump for it. Wiggling his fingers, he reaches the very end of the shelf, but not beyond.

Yixing’s slim hands are next to his in a second, wrapping around the container and getting it down. “You can ask for help, you know.” The Chinese man sounds amused as he places the sugar on the counter in front of Minseok. He presses forward a bit so he’s pressed against Minseok’s back, pinning the shorter against the counter.

The warmth of his body seeps into Minseok’s and he can’t help humming contently, twisting his neck around for a kiss. Yixing complies easily, brushing his lips lazily against Minseok’s before he pulls away again, bustling around the kitchen. Minseok watches as a blush rises in his cheeks and he begins to murmur in Mandarin with a soft flustered voice.

Minseok suppresses the urge to smile as he stirs sugar into his coffee, then brings it up to his nose and breathes in the familiar aroma.

Yixing looks too irresistible in his sweatpants, cardigan falling off one shoulder to reveal delicate collarbones framed by the low neck of his sleeveless undershirt. As Yixing cracks eggs onto the frying pan on the stove, he hums a tune under his breath, foot tapping unconsciously.

Minseok waits, sipping his coffee while Yixing cooks. As soon as he’s done, Minseok’s made up his mind. The younger sets the plate on the table and returns to the counter, searching through the cupboards for bowls.

Minseok bites his lip and puts his drink back on the counter, crossing the kitchen with a couple steps. “Yixing.” He pitches his voice a little higher, eyes widening innocently. 

Yixing turns abruptly at the sound, eyes clearing from their sleepy haze immediately. “Gē, what are you-?”

Minseok’s on his knees before Yixing can finish his sentence, looking up at the younger with what he knows are big dark eyes. “I just want to thank you for the coffee and the sugar.” Minseok murmurs, small hand reaching up to press his palm flat against the front of Yixing’s sweatpants.

“O-oh!” Yixing’s pink mouth drops open but he collects himself a second later. “You don’t, ah, you don’t have to do that! I just thought it would be nice if I did.”

Minseok shakes his head. “Let me thank you for the other night, then.” Yixing’s eyes fall shut as he recalls the way Minseok had pleaded to be fucked, the soft skin of his thighs clamped around the dancer’s waist.

Yixing hesitates visibly, hands clenching into fists as he inhales deeply, then lets it go in a sigh. He nods once, fingers combing through Minseok’s hair. Minseok grins.

With eager fingers, he reaches up and begins pulling at the elastic waistband of Yixing’s sweatpants. The material slides down the dancer’s lithe hips easily, revealing soft pale skin littered with faint fading bruises. Minseok raises an eyebrow, wondering whose work that could be, but doesn’t question it.

Yixing’s fingers curl into his hair gently, not pulling, holding on just tightly enough to make his roots tingle. Minseok gets to work quickly and efficiently, pressing little kisses over Yixing’s warm skin, across his thighs, down his soft cock, then takes the head into his mouth and laves his tongue over the slit at the top. His eyes flit upwards through his eyelashes and watch the way Yixing’s eyes flutter shut and he squeezes his lips together tightly.

Then there are footsteps across the cold floor, but Minseok doesn’t even bother looking up. “So early?” Yifan’s amused voice comes from the threshold of the kitchen. Minseok ignores him and slides his mouth down another centimeter, cheeks clamping tight around Yixing’s cock. It’s hard now, wonderfully warm and thick against the inside of Minseok’s mouth.

Yixing on the other hand flushes at Yifan’s words, the back of one hand pressed to his mouth to keep the noises in. Yifan passes them then, ruffling Minseok’s hair on his way over. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table, ignoring the blowjob not even five feet away from him.

Minseok bobs his head, the warmth of his mouth tightening and loosening rhythmically around Yixing, whose knees shake as he whimpers and leans back against the counter to keep on his feet. Minseok swallows the excess saliva in his mouth and presses his tongue up flush to the underside of his erection, feeling the thick vein there throb.

He pulls nearly all the way off, then hollows his cheeks out and sucks, hands finding their way up, one wrapping around the base of Yixing’s cock, the other smoothing over his clenching abdominals. “Min-gē, I’m,” Yixing mumbles, too flustered to get out the full sentence. Minseok pulls away, hands replacing his mouth easily as he strokes Yixing towards completion.

“You’re what?” Minseok asks, and then licks up the underside of his cock, mouth latching back over the head to lick bitter precome up. Yixing looks like he’s about to start convulsing, shudders racking up his body, making his narrow shoulders twitch, beginning to curl in on himself.

His hips twitch then, and Minseok forces his throat to open up and take it. The weight of Yixing’s cock is familiar on his tongue, as is the slightly bitter taste in his mouth—the kid eats way too much junk food—and Minseok savors it, mouth working slowly down again.

Yifan chooses that minute to brush by, his long fingers brushing Yixing’s hips on his way to the stove, and Yixing’s whole body _quakes_ , a high cry pulling from his throat before he can muffle it. Minseok lets his eyes close and swallows, throat convulsing, and Yixing gasps, then without another warning, comes.

Minseok would be grinning were his mouth not still stretched around the head of Yixing’s cock, so he settles for swallowing it all down as easily as he can, letting Yixing ride out his orgasm in his mouth. Pretty soon, his legs do give, and the younger drops to the floor, chest heaving. Minseok keeps stroking his cock slowly, even after he whines at the oversensitivity.

Minseok leans over and presses their lips together softly, and Yixing’s tongue works its way passed his lips, licking the taste of his come out of the elder’s mouth.

With a start, Minseok realizes he’s hard too, achingly so. Yixing must realize it too because he slides a slim hand into the waistband of Minseok’s pants and wraps thin fingers around his throbbing cock.

He wants it to last, but with Yixing using his free hand to pull Minseok into his lap and then pressing his warm mouth open against the elder’s neck, Minseok doesn’t have a chance. He ends up keening, eyes pricking with tears as Yixing’s hand speeds up, thumb rubbing into the underside of the head, then up over the slit.

Minseok winds up shameless humping Yixing’s hand as Yifan watches disinterestedly from the table. When Yixing finally whispers, “Will you come for me, Min-gē?” against the hot skin of his throat, Minseok’s insides liquefy and he moans helplessly, cock twitching in Yixing’s guitar calloused hands as he loses it, spurting over the inside of his pants and all over Yixing’s fingers.

Yixing kisses him one last time when he gets his breath back, soft and slow this time, then grins and brings his white-streaked hand up to his mouth to lick it clean. Minseok stands slowly on shaky legs and walks over to the table and finds that Yifan has set it perfectly.

He makes his way back to his and Zitao’s room just as the youngest emerges, hair fluffy and eyes glazed over. He briefly brushes his knuckles down Minseok’s arm on his way to the table and sits down on Yifan’s left.

By the time Minseok has changed his pants and comes out again, Jongdae is sat at the table at well, rubbing sleepy eyes and linking fingers with Zitao.

Minseok slides into his seat next to Yixing, who shoots him a little half-smile and threads their fingers together under the table as well. Lu Han comes in a second later, dropping down in the chair on Minseok’s other side, one hand snaking up Minseok’s thigh.

“I think my coffee got cold,” Minseok complains softly, and Yixing bursts into giggles. The others shoot them confused looks and Minseok just shrugs.

“I’ll make you some more,” Yixing promises quietly, and Minseok has never ever felt so content.

2.  _Lu Han_

Out of all the things Lu Han does with the other members, he likes lying in bed with Yixing the most. They lie, face to face on their sides, probably examining each other’s faces for so long that it’s strange.

This thing he has with Yixing is so different from anything he has with the others, even Minseok, but it’s good, he decides one day while the younger’s breath goes soft and even as he drifts off, his fingers are curled loosely into the front of Lu Han’s shirt.

Talking to Yixing in hushed Mandarin when they have spare time is akin to the feeling of coming home after a long time, something none of them have been able to do recently.

Yixing’s eyes are half lidded when he looks up and his mouth parts. “ _Gē,_ ” he breathes so softly, and Lu Han aches just looking at him. Lu Han reaches up and brushes brown hair off his forehead, then trails his fingertips down the younger’s face, signaling him to continue. “Do you think if we’d never auditioned or became idols we’d still have found each other somehow?”

“Of course,” Lu Han murmurs without even hesitating. “We’d all end up together, just like we are now.” It’s not a very plausible answer, but watching the glimmer in Yixing’s eyes makes up for it. “You would be part of a band, playing guitar. They’d get signed onto a record label in Beijing, where you would meet me, and of course I’d charm you with my good looks and you’d never want to leave.”

Yixing giggles and leans forward until their lips are a hairsbreadth apart and mumbles, “You would meet Min-gē in a University class, where he’d be studying abroad. You would take one look at him and invite him over immediately.”

Lu Han snorts, but doesn’t deny it. “He would be so irritated by us at first but then slowly warm up.” When Yixing leans forward and brushes their lips together, Lu Han’s mind goes a little hazy. He talks to keep himself grounded. “Yifan would be traveling to China to visit distant relatives. He would be interested in us but wouldn’t make a move until someone dragged him into bed with us.”

“Zitao would be on a road trip with his friends after high school,” Yixing smiles and Lu Han reaches up to press his pinky finger into the younger’s dimple. “One of us would find him irresistible and buy him food and spoil him so much that he’d never want to leave.”

Lu Han kisses him again, softer this time, then whispers against his mouth, “Jongdae would be on a family vacation where he’d get separated and lost. You’d bring him back to our apartment and he’d wind up staying the night because he doesn’t know where his hotel is.”

“He’d fall right in love,” Yixing mumbles, “And we’d be like we are now.”

Lu Han smiles, satisfied, and links their fingers together. “I don’t think it would be possible for us not to be like this.” He confesses. He’s not usually one for saying strange romantic things but Yixing, with his pink mouth and heavy eyes and sweet voice is something he’s never been able to hold back on. They’re all close, but Lu Han knows no one else is at this strange level of _platonic soulmate_. Yixing always seems to know what’s worrying him, what he’s thinking about, and in turn, Lu Han is finely tuned to Yixing’s mannerisms and moods.

Yixing leans forward and kisses him, openmouthed, and he tastes like green tea and home. Lu Han’s fingers slide up his side, tangle in his hair, and pulls him closer. It’s languid and slow, and Lu Han loves that so much about Yixing, how willing and pliant he becomes, soft hands flush against Lu Han’s heart, feeling the thudding beat under the thin cotton of his shirt.

“ _Lu Han_ ,” Yixing breathes then, softly, reverently. Lu Han hums in response, and Yixing tightens his fingers a fraction. “I like the way we all are a lot.”

Lu Han’s lips curl into a smile before he’s realizing it, and he holds Yixing closer. “I do too,” he admits. Then they’re kissing again, mouths parted against each other. Lu Han is sure he’ll never tire of how differently they all kiss, Jongdae’s eager mouth, Minseok’s shy sweet one, and Yixing’s soft and lingering every time they part.

“Lu-gē,” Yixing whines softly, pressing his hips forward slightly. Lu Han relishes the way Yixing’s half-hard cock presses against his. He reaches a hand down and feels it through the thin front of Yixing’s sweatpants. “I-“ Yixing hesitates for a second, then blurts it out. “Will you touch me?”

Lu Han would be lying if he said his insides didn’t just light on fire at the words. He swallows thickly and nods, pressing a chaste kiss to the generous swell of Yixing’s bottom lip. “Come on,” Lu Han mutters, “Me too.” He winds his fingers around Yixing’s wrist and pulls the younger’s palm to the waistband of his shorts.

Lu Han reaches for the lotion he knows will be by the nightstand and smears a generous amount onto his palm, pressing it to Yixing’s smaller one to hand some off to him.

The first few times they’d done this, with shaky slow hand and cautious fingers, it had taken them both forever to get off, but now Lu Han knows exactly how to twist his palm around the warm head of Yixing’s cock, how to press his thumb under the head and grind it in, how Yixing likes it when Lu Han talks to him while they do this.

In turn, Yixing has picked up on everything Lu Han likes, from the little whines in response to Lu Han’s hushed murmurs to the way he rubs his fingers down the underside of Lu Han’s erection. “ _God_ ,” he ends up breathing into Yixing’s mouth, “You’re so good, Xing, fuck, _so_ good.”

Lu Han’s entire body feels too hot when Yixing’s fingers tighten around the base of his cock, and he trips over his words, and his hips jerk senselessly into the circle of Yixing’s fist. He ends up coming way quicker than he’d like, groaning quietly, then feels Yixing follow a second later, cock pulsing against Lu Han’s hand.

The sexual aspect of their relationship isn’t _bad_ , but Lu Han thinks he likes what comes afterward much better. Yixing likes to bury his face in Lu Han’s neck, giggly and sated, slim fingers seeking out Lu Han’s to intertwine them together. Lu Han likes to hold Yixing around his waist, pressing him close.

They talk. They talk about anything that comes to mind, not worried about not making sense or sounding stupid, and Lu Han is so grateful for finding someone like this, who is somehow on the same wavelength as him.

When Yixing eventually drifts off to sleep, Lu Han finds himself staring for far too long, eyes caught on the steady rise and fall of his chest, on his soft brown hair, and then on his swollen pink lips.

Lu Han thinks he’s known ever since he met them back when they were trainees, ever since the first time they’d talked, when Yixing was overeager and young, when Yifan had black hair and no air of authority, when Minseok had been chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed, when Zitao and Jongdae had been so painfully young, Lu Han had known they were special somehow.

And he’s so, _so_ glad they fell into place like this.

_3\. Yifan_

In the grand scheme of things, Yifan has absolutely no idea how they managed to end up here.

In fact, were he not part of this strange, fumbling relationship, he would have deemed it impossible. Six people seems simply _too many_ , but here they are, working past each obstacle at a time, and on most days, it works.

Yifan supposes he muses over it too much, especially when he should be doing this paperwork for the company as the leader. It should be easy, a couple of forms, but the stresses of being leader are slowly becoming heavier and heavier. If Yifan is already so tired and stressed, he can’t even imagine how horrible Junmyeon must be doing all the way over in Korea, with their out of balance, hectic subgroup.

At the very least, Yifan never has to worry about the six of them getting along and finding balance. If he’s playing the role of father, Yixing plays the role of mediating mother well.

Yifan snaps out of his thoughts and sighs down at the papers for the thousandth time, the only-slightly familiar Korean characters beginning to become fuzzy around the edges. It’s late at night, and he assumes no one else is awake. He’s always the latest to bed anyways.

At least, he assumes he’s the only one awake right up until he hears clattering in the kitchen. Yifan raises an eyebrow, ready to face a teary-eyed Zitao, hair sticking up every which way, fresh from a nightmare.

Instead, it’s Yixing that shuffles over, eyes heavy and sleepy, cardigan draped over his slim shoulders. In his hands are two steaming mugs of something, and when he gets close enough, Yifan confirms that it’s tea. Yixing yawns and sets one down in front of him, then settles into the chair across from him.

Yifan smiles at the sight, nudging the younger’s ankle with his under the table. Yixing raises his gaze from the mug and smiles back, the dimple in his cheek indenting. “You’re up late,” Yifan says.

Yixing yawns again and sets his forearms on the table, then leans his cheek against them. “You’re up late too,” he replies, voice soft and a little husky. His eyelashes cast shadows down his cheeks in the dim light and Yifan watches them flutter when he blinks.

“You look tired,” Yixing comments. Yifan knows how the dark circles under his eyes look, how he’s perpetually falling asleep in the van on whoever happens to be next to him, but he also knows that it’s his job as leader to get all his work finished and make sure all the members are in line, and he does a damn good job of that.

“I am tired.” Yifan says shortly. He takes a sip of the tea, eyes closing as the wonderful scent of lemon and ginger overtakes him. Yixing always makes tea the best, knowing exactly how everyone likes it. When Yifan looks up again, there’s a surprising amount of clarity in Yixing’s lidded eyes.

Yixing taps at the table with his blunt fingernails, the little clicking noises lulling Yifan into some kind of stupor before he stops and stands abruptly.

“Duizhang,” Yixing says. It’s never _Hyung_ or _Gēge_ with him, always _Duizhang_. “Duizhang,” Yixing repeats softly. He moves fluidly around the table and over to Yifan, small hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Can I help somehow?”

Yixing leans in, the point of his chin digging into Yifan’s shoulder. Yifan turns slowly until their lips are brushing, not exactly kissing, but not _not_ kissing either.

“Help how?” Yifan asks, and then suddenly he can taste Yixing’s favorite spice tea because they’re actually _kissing_ , and his neck hurts from the angle but Yixing’s mouth fits so nicely against his, all soft and warm, that he can’t bring himself to mind.

Yixing kisses sleepily and languid, fingers curling gently into Yifan’s hair, and Yifan thinks absently that it feels kind of coming home. “Don’t work yourself so hard all the time,” Yixing urges quietly, “You push yourself too much.”

Yifan can’t help laughing at that, because if anyone, it’s Yixing that always pushes himself right to the brink of breaking, not knowing his own limits until it gets him bedridden (and it has, so many times before.)

“Don’t laugh,” Yixing mutters disapprovingly, “I’m trying to scold you.”

“Sorry,” Yifan says immediately sobering up, “I’m not laughing.” Yixing raises an eyebrow and leans in again to press a quick kiss to his cheek, then suddenly he’s gone, sliding down to the floor. “What are you doing?” Yifan asks even though it’s fairly obvious.

Yixing looks up from between his legs and says with exaggerated patience, “I’m trying to help you relieve stress. Are you too exhausted to understand Mandarin anymore? Should I try Korean? English?”

Yifan rolls his eyes, easily falling into the effortless banter the two of them always seem to have flowing between them. “I don’t think insulting me is relieving stress, Xing.”

Shooting Yifan the slyest expression he’s ever seen on the younger’s face, Yixing reaches out and presses his palms to the front of Yifan’s flannel pajama bottoms. “Well I’ll have to try other methods then, won’t I?”

Yifan is finding his attempts more amusing than actually arousing, especially because Yixing keeps yawning whilst trying to look coy, eyes heavy with sleep rather than the way they get when he’s in the mood. Finally, it gets too much for Yifan when Yixing’s nose scrunches and he yawns, hand slipping off where it’s braced against Yifan’s thigh, and the elder winds up laughing and pushing Yixing’s hands off him.

“Get some rest, Xing,” he says, “Don’t want you falling asleep with a dick in your mouth.”

Yixing looks properly offended at that, opening his mouth to retort, but yawns enormously instead, and Yifan shakes his head, lips curling in amusement. “Go,” he urges, and the dancer stands, a little wobbly from exhaustion.

An idea must hit him, because his face lights up for a second. He slips onto Yifan’s lap, curling his fingers into the cotton of his pullover. “I’m too tired to walk.” Yixing states. “Make use of that height and carry me.”

Yifan snorts, about to push him off, but then shakes his head and gives in. It’s better to just go with Yixing sometimes rather than argue. Yifan stands with some difficulty, wincing when the chair scrapes across the cold floor as it’s pushed back.

He walks over to the shut door of Lu Han and Yixing’s room when Yixing shakes his head and tugs his hair lightly. “Yours and Jongdae’s,” he mutters quietly, and Yifan has half a mind to drop him and go back to work, but Yixing blinks slowly, eyelids weighing down, so he keeps going.

Jongdae is fast asleep on the bed across the room when Yifan slips inside, Yixing clinging to him like some kind of overgrown baby, but when Yifan finally lets him go over the empty bed, Yixing’s hands tangle harder into Yifan’s pullover and pull him down as well.

“I have work,” Yifan hisses quietly, but Yixing smiles sleepily.

“Just for a couple minutes?” he asks, and somehow Yifan finds himself giving in because he sucks at saying no to Yixing.

Yixing’s body is always warm, and under the covers, Yifan feels drowsy within a matter of minutes. Yixing gives him a triumphant smile in the dark, hands coming to card through Yifan’s blond hair, and then his eyes are slipping shut, mind giving in to the unconquerable darkness.

Right on the edge of sleep, Yifan hears Yixing mutter, “Told you so.”

4\. _Jongdae_

Chinese characters really are the bane of Jongdae’s existence.

It’s a simple sentence, really. _Please support our new album_. Easy enough, but the letters keep twisting and turning in Jongdae’s head, not turning out right on the page.

It’s times like this that Jongdae wonders what he’s even doing, trying to become _famous_ in a country where he can’t speak the language properly, so far away from home.

That’s pretty ironic, he realizes immediately. Yifan, Lu Han, Yixing, and Zitao would laugh if they knew he had those kinds of thoughts, after all they’d been through back in Korea, so Jongdae keeps them stored up, locked in the far corners of his mind. It’s a petty idea honestly, him being frustrated when the four Chinese members had studied so diligently until they’d become fluent in Korean.

Still, the sentence isn’t going to fix itself. Jongdae sighs heavily and forces his limbs to move from their comfortable position on his bed. Yifan’s out at some restaurant with Lu Han and Minseok ( _Hyung bonding time_ , whatever that is) and Jongdae would rather avoid Zitao’s teaching methods, which basically are him getting confused when Jongdae can’t understand a character and then trying to kiss him every time he gets one right. Not that he minds the latter, but in the long run, making out with Zitao doesn’t help him learn Mandarin.

So instead, he finds Yixing on the couch, bent over a cloth bound notebook. His handwriting is scribbled all over the page and the margins, along with little doodles and neat Korean letters.

 “Hyung?” Jongdae’s voice sounds impossibly soft as he speaks, one hand twisted into the hem of his sweater, a telltale sign of anxiety.

Yixing looks up from his notebook of lyrics, glances at the book held partly behind Jongdae’s body, and then back up at his face. “Do you need help with Mandarin?” He guesses, and Jongdae smiles, relief sparking in his stomach.

“I’m supposed to be copying these characters but mine aren’t turning out how I want them to,” He explains, sliding onto the couch next to Yixing, leaning in unconsciously to the warmth of Yixing’s body.

Yixing takes the notebook and the pen hooked onto it, squints for a second at the page, and writes the sentence perfectly in his spiky scrawl. “This has that line right there, see?” He explains patiently, _much_ more patiently than Yifan or Lu Han or Zitao ever are.

Jongdae leans in even closer until their faces are inches apart and takes the pen, copying down Yixing’s writing. “Like that?” he asks, then looks up and realizes just _how_ close they are, Yixing’s lips practically brushing his.

“That’s perfect,” Yixing breathes, then inches forward so their lips touch.

“You’re perfect,” Jongdae immediately responds, then wants to slap himself because what the fuck, that sounds so lame.

But Yixing laughs quietly against his mouth, gentle hands pulling through Jongdae’s hair to push his head a little to the side, baring his neck. “Did you really need my help?” He wonders out loud, lips ghosting over Jongdae’s unblemished skin as he trails careful kisses down to Jongdae’s throat.

“I did!” Jongdae protests weakly, but it dies in his throat when Yixing parts his lips and sucks on the warm skin of his neck. “Don’t leave too many bruises.” He reminds.

“The makeup noonas will cover it up.” Yixing argues, and that does make sense, so Jongdae sighs and lets him nip and suck his way down to his collarbones. The sweater he’s wearing is Zitao’s, the neck much too big on his smaller frame, so it slips down enough for Yixing to get access to his clavicle easily. Yixing pushes him lightly until he falls back against the couch, legs spreading automatically for Yixing to slip between them.

“My book,” Jongdae mumbles, but he doesn’t need to worry because Yixing is already moving the Mandarin textbook that is quickly becoming Jongdae’s enemy off to the side, not even pulling away when it falls off the couch with a dull thud. Then he pushes Jongdae’s sweater up so it bunches up around his underarms, and proceeds to suck bruises down the flat tanned surface of his chest.

“So,” Yixing says conversationally into the skin under his belly button, “They’re having you promo our album on writing now?”

Jongdae squirms, ticklish under Yixing’s breath, and shrugs. “I guess having me pronounce things wasn’t enough.” He yelps quietly when Yixing bites the soft skin of his stomach playfully, gritting out a, “Stop teasing and get to it.”

“Get to what?” Yixing’s eyes sparkle mischievously and he licks his lips, slow and deliberate. Jongdae’s fingers curl into the couch under him and he huffs out a breath impatiently. His cock is already half hard in his sweatpants, and Yixing knows it judging from the way he’s grinning, one hand braced against Jongdae’s thigh right under where his dick is, the other tracing along the waistband of his pants.

“Please?” Jongdae asks hopefully, and Yixing seems appeased enough by this, tugging the waistband of Jongdae’s sweatpants down easily.

“You should be studying,” Yixing laughs softly, but wraps his hand around the base of Jongdae’s cock even as he talks.

“You should be kissing me.” Jongdae counters easily, and Yixing complies as always, leaning over his body to reach his mouth. Yixing always kisses him so sweetly, lips soft against each other, one hand jerking his cock slowly, the other undoing the button of his own jeans with some difficulty.

Jongdae gasps, arching up when he feels Yixing’s cock press against his, both fit between Yixing’s fingers as he quickens his pace. Yixing’s lips slip off his, and he presses a quick kiss to the sharp edge of Jongdae’s cheekbone, then lets go of both their dicks to lick a stripe up his palm. “Okay?” He asks just once, searching Jongdae’s face for confirmation. Jongdae nods and Yixing wraps his hand around both their cocks again.

Yixing is _evil_ , Jongdae decides then and there, because his pace is still devastatingly slow, tugging at their cocks in a way that makes Jongdae’s sides erupt into goosebumps, his hips eager as they lift into his grip instinctively. And fuck, Yixing keeps _staring_ , eyebrows furrowed in concentration, eyes on Jongdae’s face like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen.

Yixing’s thumb grinds methodically into the vein on the underside of Jongdae’s cock and he cries out, unable to help himself. “Hyung,” he mumbles, “Hyung do that again.”

Yixing’s eyes are lidded heavily, lips obscenely pink and parted as he breathes, “Call me _Gē.”_

The part of Jongdae’s brain that hasn’t turned to mush files that away for later situations, but he gasps out, “ _Gē,_ I’m,” He cuts off, because at the word, Yixing shudders and comes, spilling warm in his fist. Yixing’s come seeps through his fingers onto Jongdae’s cock, and Jongdae hisses at the contact, writhing against the couch.

Yixing’s cock slips out of his fist a second later, and he tightens his palm around Jongdae’s erection, jerking his fist faster, palm slick from his own come. Jongdae’s hips rut up into the tight circle of his fist for all he’s worth, and then he’s coming too, heat pooling low in his belly, back arching up high off the couch.

As his breath slows, Jongdae’s eyelids grow heavy like they always do after a particularly good orgasm, and when Yixing asks him, “Tell me how that was in Mandarin,” his mind is muddled and the only thing he can remember how to say back is “Please support our new album.”

Yixing’s chiming laughter is worth him feeling dumb, though.

5\. _Zitao_

It happens in the middle of an interview.

Zitao can’t speak. He _hates_ himself for it, but it’s so difficult for him to get words out correctly sometimes when the lights are glaring and the cameras are focused on him.

So instead of answering easily like the others, he ends up stuttering and feeling stupid, flushing bright with embarrassment before Lu Han easily picks up the question and the attention shifts to him. Zitao looks down at his leather-clad thighs and blinks rapidly, knowing there are tears stinging at his eyes and there is way too much eyeliner smeared around his eyelids for them to fall.

Zitao doesn’t mean to beat himself up about small things like this, but sometimes it’s so _hard_ because all the others are so good at talking, never stuttering or messing up, but he always ends up sounding so stupid. The rest of the interview finishes easily with Yixing making small talk flawlessly like he always does, charming the hosts one by one.

In the van, he sits squished between Yifan and Yixing, and they must notice that he’s being distinctly quiet because Yifan’s fingers thread through his and hold tight, long sinewy hands warm against his. Yixing’s head falls into the crook of his neck easily and he presses to Zitao’s side.

Zitao lets himself relax into their bodies, but the nagging feeling in the back of his mind doesn’t leave.

When they get back to the dorm, everyone’s in high spirits despite being tired after promoting for the fifth day in a row. It’s their life though, overworked and exhausted as they may be, and everyone always seems to handle that better than Zitao.

When Jongdae tugs on his hand and asks if he wants to watch a movie, Zitao finds himself quietly declining and excuses himself to the balcony. It’s tiny, but it’s beautiful nonetheless because Yixing likes keeping it clean and putting little flowerpots in the corners.

Zitao fishes for the pack of cigarettes he knows is in his pocket. It’s a bad habit he’s never completely been able to kick, but it’s reduced now to when he only needs one when he feels empty and wants familiar smoke and warmth to fill him again. Zitao used to love the way smoke fills his lungs and spreads fiery tingling through his entire body down to the very tips of his fingers, the way smoke sits at the back of his throat and down into his lungs until he releases it, and it curls and wisps before disappearing into the air.

Attempting to quit had been one of the harshest times of his life, snapping irritably every time his fingers twitched towards one of the empty packs in his nightstand, curling up in bed when the craving for nicotine had gotten too strong at times, until it had simply become too much and he decided that lessening the number of them would be better than giving it up completely.

Now, he chain-smokes one after another, breathing in smoke and remembering nights back in Qingdao when he and his friends were too young to know right from wrong, staying out late and making their parents worry.

Going to Korea to train may have had all kinds of disadvantages, but at the very least, Zitao has grown up a little.

Zitao has found that people like Yixing or Yifan don’t like to talk about their problems. They like to wallow in their own misery until they can bring themselves out of it, they like company, for Zitao to hold their hands and sit at their sides silently until the storm has passed. Zitao though, Zitao can’t do that. His stress builds up inside him, approaching the breaking point rapidly unless he can get it all out to someone.

And so, when Yixing slips onto the balcony with a cup of tea and a blanket, Zitao takes both gratefully and stabs out his cigarette with more force than necessary. Yixing wrinkles his nose and murmurs, “You’re going to ruin that pretty voice if you keep doing that.”

Zitao shrugs and nudges Yixing with his shoulder, elbows against the cold metal railing. “It’s not like they let me sing anyways.”

Yixing raises an eyebrow and nudges Zitao back. “You sing for us. What are we going to do if you sound all raspy and horrible?” 

“I don’t sing for you. I sing under my breath when I’m not paying attention and you start cooing and touching my throat.” Zitao snorts and is about to pull out another cigarette from the nearly empty box when Yixing’s thin delicate fingers wrap around his wrist, shocking white against golden, and pull him back.

“Nonetheless, you sound too good to ruin it. Do it for me?” Yixing’s eyes go big, and if Zitao were any less infatuated with him, he’d say no, but Yixing’s soft persuasive voice and gentle hands make Zitao’s insides feel like they’re melting.

“Take them,” he says, but the words come out rougher than he’d wanted them to as he shoves the pack of smokes towards Yixing, who takes them without a word and slides the box into the pocket of his hoodie.

Yixing’s face is carefully blank as his eyes sweep over Zitao’s face, micro-examining every facet until he sighs and leans harder on the railing and then averts his eyes down towards the street many floors below.

“You know I’m being like this because I care, right?” Yixing peeks out the corner of his eye, and great, now Zitao feels like a shitty human being because Yixing is too damn _nice_ , walking around all gracefully, complimenting everything in sight.

“I know,” Zitao mutters a bit petulantly, feeling like a scolded child. After a second of comfortable silence, he finally speaks up. “It’s just—how do you and Duizhang and even Lu-gē talk like that? I keep messing up and saying stupid things and sounding so childish, but you guys are—I don’t know, smooth? Professional?”

Yixing actually laughs out loud, which is definitely not what Zitao is expecting. “I’m being serious!” he scowls, but Yixing giggles and reaches out to link their fingers together again.

“Are you for real?” Yixing asks, “Half the time I’m getting yelled at for not paying attention, and the other half I’m saying too much and being too personal.”

Zitao turns and leans his back against the railing, shivering slightly when a passing breeze ruffles his hair and leaves a lingering chill, and then draws the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “I can’t talk without stuttering.” He frowns as Yixing reaches up and fixes a fold in the blanket automatically.

“You sound fine,” Yixing assures quietly, and even in the smog of the city, the sunset paints his face an array of yellows and oranges, half of his features drowning in shadow. Zitao reaches out without thinking and leans down on instinct, pressing his lips to Yixing’s quickly.

When Yixing acts like he does, stage presence and sharp wit, it’s easy for Zitao to forget how small he really is, shorter than even Lu Han, but now Zitao’s neck aches where he has to bend to reach Yixing’s soft lips.

Yixing’s mouth tastes sweet against his, like whatever tea he’d been drinking this time, and as he presses harder into Zitao, pushing him against the railing so it digs into his skin right in the center of his torso, his tongue slides along the seam of the younger’s mouth, coaxing it open.

Yixing’s fluttery hands find themselves around Zitao’s neck, one cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, the other fisted in the short hair at the nape of his neck, and then they’re properly making out, tongue against tongue.

Then Yixing pulls away and smiles serenely, like he has all the fucking answers to the universe, and Zitao’s chest aches a little. “Everything’s going to be fine,” Yixing whispers, and as the last fleeting moments of the sunset disappear, Zitao watches the most tender expression he’s ever seen play out on Yixing’s face with his breath short and his palms clammy.

As Yixing convinces him to come back inside and catch the second half of whatever lame movie Jongdae had picked out, Zitao finds his chest filling with warmth, but not from smoke this time.

6.  _Yixing_

 

Yixing likes all kinds of things—his grandparents, tea, guitars, music—but he thinks he likes his members the best of all.

God knows how they manage it, fitting six grown men (overgrown if he counts Yifan or Zitao) into two flimsy pushed-together beds, but they work through it anyways, despite the sharp elbows and bony knees jabbing into places they don’t belong. Still, being with all of them like this makes Yixing’s heart well up with something he doesn’t quite have a name for yet, all sloshy and a little overwhelming, but it warms him to his fingertips until he feels like he’s glowing.

With Yifan’s long fingers carding through his hair, Jongdae pressed against one side, Zitao against the other, Lu Han between his legs, head on his stomach, and Minseok’s fingers threaded through his, Yixing is loved and protected and everything in between.

And he has no doubt in his mind that they would end up like this in any other hypothetical situation, in any other lifetime, in any other incarnation, in any other universe.

To him, they’re home.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://eatjinsass.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/whinytaeyong) come hmu


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